The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 3

by Unknown

  As he glanced cautiously around, Tripitaka saw that it was so bright and luminous inside the shrine that they seemed to be sitting directly beneath the moon.

  From rock edges water flowed out

  And from flowers came forth fragrance.

  Unsoiled by half a speck of dust,

  This place of grace and elegance.

  Gladdened and comforted by such heavenly scenery, the elder could not refrain from chanting the following line:

  The mind of Chan seems like the dustless moon.

  With a broad grin, the elder Knotty Virtue immediately followed the lead and chanted:

  On us our muse shines as the cloudless noon.

  Squire Lonesome Rectitude said,

  Fine phrases are cut like rolled-out brocade;

  Master Void-Surmounting said,

  Like rare gems good lines are fashioned and made.

  Cloud-Brushing Dean said,

  Six Periods11 are purged of their vain conceits;

  The Book of Odes a new compiler meets.12

  “This disciple,” said Tripitaka, “has in an unguarded moment blurted out a few words. It’s like wielding the axe before the Carpenter God! When I heard just now the fresh and elegant lines of you immortals, I knew I had met poetic masters.” The elder Knotty Virtue said, “No need for idle chatter, holy monk. Those who have left the family must finish the work they started. If you begin a poem, you can’t avoid finishing it, can you? We hope you will complete it.” “This disciple can hardly do that,” replied Tripitaka. “May I trouble Squire Eight-and-Ten to find the concluding lines and render the poem whole? That’ll be wonderful!” “How cruel you are!” said Knotty Virtue. “You had the first line, after all. How could you refuse the last two? To withhold your talents is hardly reasonable.” Tripitaka had no choice but to finish the last two lines by reciting:

  Ere the tea darkens as pine breezes sing,

  This gay mood of songs fills my heart with spring.

  “Bravo!” said Squire Eight-and-Ten. “What a magnificent line—‘This gay mood of songs fills my heart with spring’!”

  “Knotty Virtue,” said Squire Lonesome Rectitude, “since you are verily addicted to poetry, you love to mull over every line. Why not start another poem?”

  Without hesitation, Squire Eight-and-Ten said, “I’ll begin in the manner of ‘Pushing the Needle’:13

  Spring quickens me not, nor does winter dry;

  For me they are nothing, though clouds float by.”

  Master Void-Surmounting said, “I’ll follow you in that manner also.

  By me, though windless, is formed a dancing shade.

  One loves such blessing and long life displayed.”

  Then Cloud-Brushing Dean said,

  Displayed like West Mountain’s noble sire,

  I’m pure as southland’s empty-hearted squire.

  Finally, Squire Lonesome Rectitude said,

  Squired by slanting growth of highest grade,

  I yield the crossbeams of the king’s estrade.14

  On hearing this, the elder was full of praise for them, saying, “This is truly the most sublime poetry, its nobility reaches up to Heaven! Though this disciple is without talents, he would make bold to begin another two lines.” “Holy monk,” said Squire Lonesome Rectitude, “you are someone accomplished in the Way, someone who has received profound nurture. There’s no need for you to do another linking verse. Please grant us an entire poem by yourself, and we shall make the utmost effort to reply in kind.”15 Tripitaka had no alternative but to compose, smiling, a poem in the style of the regulated verse:

  A priest goes West to seek the dharma king:

  To farthest shores some wondrous scripts he’d bring.

  “Thrice-blooming plants the poet’s luck augment;

  Jewel-tree blossoms waft the Buddha scent.”16

  To reach beyond the highest heights he’ll strive

  And try in all the worlds his office to live.

  When he the noble jade form captivates,

  The field of rites lies before Nirvāṇa’s gates.

  When the four old men heard this, they paid him the highest compliments.

  Then Squire Eight-and-Ten said, “This old moron has no other abilities except audacity. I shall force myself to answer your poem with this one of mine:

  Aloof’s Knotty Virtue, I scorn the sylvan king.

  My fame spreads wider than this long-lived thing!17

  Tall, serpentine shade o’er the mount is bent;

  The stream drinks my millennial, amber scent.

  I reach out to enhance the universe,

  Though wind and rain will my act and aim reverse.

  Declining I lack those immortal bones,

  With naught but fungi as my own gravestones.”

  “This poem,” said Squire Lonesome Rectitude, “begins with a heroic line, and the middle parallel couplets, too, show tremendous strength. But the concluding lines are far too modest. How admirable! How admirable! This old moron will also reply with this poem:

  My frosty face oft pleases the avian kings.

  My talents thrive by the Hall of Four Great Things.18

  Pearl drops of dew adorn my jade-green tent;

  A gentle breeze will spread my chilly scent.

  My murmurs at night the long porches attend;

  An old shrine in autumn my shadows befriend.

  To spring I give birthday gifts on new year’s day;

  I’m the old master of the mountain way.”

  “Marvelous poem! Marvelous poem!” said Master Void-Surmounting, laughing. “Truly it’s as if the moon is putting the center of Heaven under duress. How could this old moron reply in kind? But I shouldn’t allow this opportunity to pass by, I suppose, and so, I’ll have to throw together a few lines:

  Of towering talents close to lords and king,

  My fame by Grand Pure Palace19 once did spring.

  On kiosks are seen green ether’s descent;

  By darkened walls passes my faint, crisp scent.

  Upright forever I retain my mirth,

  For these roots are formed deep within the earth.

  Above the clouds my dancing shadow soars,

  Beyond those vainglorious, floral corps.”

  “The poems of the three squires,” said Cloud-Brushing Dean, “are most noble and elegant; they show the finest purity and simplicity. Truly they can be said to have come from a brocaded pouch. My body has little strength and my bowels have little talents, but the instruction I received from the three squires has opened up my mind. So, I, too, will offer this doggerel. Please don’t laugh at me!

  In Qi-Yu20 gardens I delight a sage king.

  Through fields of Wei21 I’m free to sway and swing.

  No Naiad’s tears my jadelike skin had stained,

  But mottled sheaths had Han histories contained. 22

  By frost my leaves their true beauty reveal.

  Could mist henceforth my stems’ luster conceal?

  With Ziyou’s23 passing my true friends are few,

  Though scholars’ praise my fame ever renews.”24

  “The poems of the various immortal elders,” said Tripitaka, “truly resemble pearls emitted by phoenixes. Not even Ziyou and Zixia, those two disciples of Confucius, could surpass you. Moreover, I’m extremely grateful for your kindness and hospitality. It is, however, deep in the night, and I fear that my three humble disciples are waiting for me somewhere. Your student, therefore, cannot remain here long. By your boundless love, let me leave now and go find them. I beg you to point out to me the way back.” “Please don’t worry, holy monk,” said the four old men, laughing. “Ours is an opportunity that comes but once in a thousand years. Though the night is deep, the sky is fair and the moon is very bright. Please sit here for awhile longer. By morning we shall escort you across the ridge, and you’ll without fail meet up with your disciples.”

  As they were thus speaking, there walked in from outside the stone house two blu
e-robed maidens, holding a pair of red-gauze lanterns and followed by an immortal girl. She was twirling in her hand a sprig of apricot blossoms, and smiling broadly, she walked in to greet them. How did she look, you ask. She had

  A young face kingfisher adorned,

  And colors better than rouge;

  Luminous starlike eyes;

  Moth brows neat and refined.

  Down below: a light pink skirt patterned with five-colored plums;

  Up above; a maroon blouse without collar or sleeves.

  Small slippers pointed like phoenix beaks,

  And slender stockings of silk brocade.

  Seductive and coy like a Tiantai goddess,

  She seems to be the fair Daji 25 of old.

  “To what do we owe this visit, Apricot Immortal?” asked the four old men as they rose to greet her. After the girl had bowed to all of them, she said, “I learned that a charming guest is being entertained here and I’ve come especially to make his acquaintance. May I meet him?” “The charming guest is right here,” said Squire Eight-and-Ten, pointing at the Tang Monk. “There’s no need for you to ask to see him.” Bending low, Tripitaka dared not utter a word. “Bring us some tea, quickly!” cried the girl, and two more yellow-robed maidens walked in with a red-lacquered tray, on which there were six small porcelain tea cups, several kinds of exotic fruits, and a spoon for stirring placed in the middle. One of the maidens also carried a tea pot of white iron set in yellow copper, from which arose the overpowering aroma of fine tea. After tea had been poured, the girl revealed ever so slightly her slender fingers and presented a cup of it to Tripitaka first. Then she gave the drink to the four old men before taking one herself.

  “Why doesn’t the Apricot Immortal take a seat?” asked Master Void-Surmounting, and only then did she take a seat. When they finished their tea, the girl bowed again and said, “You immortals are reveling in great pleasures this evening. May I be instructed a little by your excellent verses?” “Ours are all crude and vulgar utterances,” said Cloud-Brushing Dean, “but the compositions of the Holy Monk can truly be considered a product of the high Tang. They’re most admirable.” “If it’s not too great an imposition,” said the girl, “I would like to hear them.” Whereupon the four old men gave a thorough rehearsal of the elder’s poems and his discourse on Chan.

  Smiling broadly, the girl said to them, “I’m so untalented, and I really shouldn’t air my incompetence. But since I’ve had the privilege of hearing such magnificent poetry, I shouldn’t allow myself to go uninspired. I shall exert myself to the utmost to respond in kind to the second poem of the holy monk with a regulated verse of my own. How about that?” She thus chanted loudly:

  My fame was made lasting by Hanwu King;26

  To me his pupils did Confucius bring.27

  Dong Xian’s28 affection would my growth foment;

  Sun Chu29 once loved my Feast-of-Cold-Food scent.

  How tender and coy is this rain-moistened bloom!

  What fresh verdant hues half veiled in misty gloom!

  Ripeness makes me a little tart, I know.

  Banished each year to wheat fields, that’s my woe.

  When those four men heard this poem, they all congratulated her, saying, “It’s most elegant and sublime! And the lines are so full of vernal longings. Such a marvelous line—‘How tender and coy is this rain-moistened bloom!’”

  Smiling in a coquettish manner, the girl said, “I’m in fear and trepidation! The composition of the holy monk just now was something that could be said to have come from a mind of silk and a mouth of brocade. Let me say to him: if you can be persuaded to show us your talent, how about granting me another of your poems?” The Tang Monk, however, dared not reply. As the girl gradually became amorous, she began to sidle closer to where he was seated. “What’s the matter with you, charming guest?” she asked softly. “If you don’t have some fun on such a beautiful night, what else are you waiting for? The span of a life time, how long could that be?”

  “If the Apricot Immortal,” said Squire Eight-and-Ten, “entertained such genial feelings, how could the holy monk not reciprocate by giving his consent? If he withholds his favors, then he doesn’t know how lucky he is.” “But the holy monk,” said Squire Lonesome Rectitude, “is a gentleman of fame and accomplishment in the Way, who certainly will not indulge in anything improper. If we insist on such activities, it is we who are guilty of impropriety: we would be soiling a man’s fame and spoiling his virtue. That’s hardly the proper thing to do! If Apricot Immortal is indeed so inclined, let Cloud-Brushing Dean and Squire Eight-and-Ten serve as go-betweens. Master Void-Surmounting and I can be the witnesses. They can then seal this marital contract. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  On hearing this, Tripitaka turned red in anger. Leaping up all at once, he shouted, “You are all fiendish creatures! How you’ve tried to tempt me! At first, I allowed your platitudes to goad me into discussing the mysteries of Dao, and that was still all right. But how could you use this ‘beauty trap’ now to try to seduce me? What have you to say to this?” When the four elders saw how enraged Tripitaka had become, they became so startled that every one of them bit his fingers and fell completely silent. The scarlet-bodied demon attendant, however, grew very angry and bellowed, “Monk, you can’t even tell when someone’s trying to do you a favor! Is there anything bad about this dear sis of mine? Look at her refinement and talents, her lovely jadelike features. Let’s not talk about her skills in the feminine arts. Just a single poem of hers has already demonstrated that she is a worthy match for you. Why do you so brusquely refuse her? You’d better not let this opportunity slip by. What Squire Lonesome Rectitude says is most appropriate. If you refuse to do anything improper, let me serve as your marriage official.”

  Tripitaka turned pale with fright, but he refused to give his assent no matter how urgently they pleaded with him. “You foolish priest!” said the demon attendant again. “We speak to you in a kindly manner, and you refuse us. If you arouse our wild and unruly passions and make us abduct you to another region, where you neither can pursue your priestly life nor take a wife, won’t you have lived in vain?” With a mind like metal or stone, that elder adamantly refused to comply. He thought to himself, “I wonder where my disciples are looking for me . . .” So speaking to himself, he could not restrain the tears from rolling down his cheeks. Trying to placate him with a smile, the girl sat down close to him and took out from her sleeve a honey-scented handkerchief to wipe away his tears. “Charming guest,” she said, “don’t be so upset! Let’s you and I nestle in jade and perfume and have some fun!” Uttering a loud cry, the elder bounded up and tried to dash out of the door, only to be grabbed by all those people. They brawled and struggled like that until dawn.

  Suddenly another cry could be heard: “Master, Master, where are you speaking?” The Great Pilgrim Sun, you see, together with Eight Rules and Sha Monk, had been leading the horse and poling the luggage for a whole night without stopping. Going through brambles and thorns, searching this way and that, they managed to cover the entire eight hundred miles of the Bramble Ridge halfway between cloud and fog. By morning they reached the western edge of the ridge, and that was when they came upon the noises made by the Tang Monk. They responded with the cry, and the elder somehow managed to struggle out of the door, yelling, “Wukong, I’m here! Come and save me, quick!” In a flash, those four old men, the demon attendant, the girl, and her maidens all disappeared.

  Soon Eight Rules and Sha Monk arrived, saying, “Master, how did you get here?” Tugging at Pilgrim, Tripitaka said, “Oh, disciples! I’ve been a great burden on you. That old man we saw last night, who claimed to be the local spirit coming to offer us food, was the person who hauled me to this place when with a shout you were about to hit him. He led me inside the door by the hand and introduced me to three other old men, all addressing me as the holy monk. Every one of them was quite refined in speech and manner, and they were all able poets. We spent our time in
the exchange of verses until about midnight, when a beautiful girl accompanied by lanterns also arrived to meet me. She, too, composed a poem and addressed me as the charming guest. Then because of my looks she wanted to marry me. I woke up to their scheme all at once and refused. They began to put pressure on me, one wanting to be the go-between, another the marriage official, and still another the witness. I swore I would not comply, arguing with them and desperately trying to struggle free. Out of the blue you people arrived. I suppose partly because it was getting light already, and partly because they seemed to be afraid of you, they all vanished suddenly, though they were still pulling and tugging at me just a moment ago.”

  “If you talked and discussed poetry with them,” said Pilgrim, “did you not ask them for their names?” “I did ask them for their styles,” replied Tripitaka. “The first old man called himself Squire Eight-and-Ten, and his style was Knotty Virtue. The second was styled Squire Lonesome Rectitude; the third, Master Void-Surmounting; and the fourth, Cloud-Brushing Dean. They addressed the girl as Apricot Immortal.” “Where are these creatures located?” asked Eight Rules. “Where did they go?” Tripitaka said, “I don’t know where they went, but the place where we discussed poetry was not far from here.”

  As the three disciples looked around with their master, they discovered a cliff nearby, and on the cliff was a plaque bearing the words, Shrine of Sylvan Immortals. “It was right here,” said Tripitaka. When Pilgrim examined the place more carefully, he saw nearby a huge juniper tree, an old cypress tree, an old pine tree, and an old bamboo. Behind the bamboo was a scarlet maple tree. As he looked toward the far side of the cliff, he saw also an old apricot tree, flanked by two stalks of winter plum and two cassia plants.

  “Have you people found the fiends?” said Pilgrim with a laugh. “Not yet,” replied Eight Rules. “Don’t you know,” said Pilgrim, “it is these several trees right here that have become spirits?” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “how do you know that?”

  “Squire Eight-and-Ten,” replied Pilgrim, “is the pine; Squire Lonesome Rectitude is the cypress; Master Void-Surmounting is the juniper; Cloud-Brushing Dean is the bamboo; the scarlet-bodied demon is the maple; Apricot Immortal is, of course, the apricot tree, while the maids are the cassia and the winter plum.” When Eight Rules heard this, he rushed forward without further ado: using his rake along with several shoves of his snout, he brought to the ground those winter plum, cassia, old apricot, and maple. From beneath the roots of these trees, fresh blood indeed spurted out. Tripitaka walked forward to pull at him, saying, “Wuneng, don’t hurt them. Though they have reached the stage of becoming spirits, they have done me no harm. Let us find our way and leave.”